The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [9]
"I'm sure that it must be a mistake," Orphan called back. "I was at the Rose last night and I can assure you Beerbohm was as effectively made extinct as the dodo." He tried to follow Maskelyne's route through the shop; now he could see the top of his head, peeking behind the BERBER COOKERY shelf; a moment later, his voice rose from the other end of the room, muttering the words of an exotic recipe as if trying to memorise it. Then Orphan blinked, and when his eyes reopened, only a fraction of a second later, the magician stood before him once again, his eyes twinkling. "I hope I didn't give you a start."
Orphan, who luckily had laid the coffee back on the counter a moment earlier, waved his hand as if to say, think nothing of it. "He is still alive, young Orphan," Maskelyne said, and his countenance was no longer cheery, but deep in an abyss of dark thoughts. "And what's more, no doctor was called to treat the man at the Rose. Let me riddle you this, my friend. When is a man not a man?"
He opened his hand, showing it empty. He laid it, for a moment, on the surface of the counter, and when it was raised a small toy rested on the wood, a little manlike doll with a key at its back. "Come to the Egyptian Hall when you next have need of counsel," the magician said, almost, it seemed to Orphan, sadly, and then he turned away and was gone through the door to the basement.
But Orphan had no time to think further of the magician's words. No sooner had Maskelyne departed that the door chimed again, and in walked an elegant lady. Enter the third murderer, Orphan thought, and hurriedly came around the counter to hold the door. It was the woman for whom an entire section of a bookcase was dedicated, and he had always felt awed in her presence. "Mrs Beeton!"
"Hello, Orphan," said Isabella Beeton cordially. "You look positively radiant today. Could it be that the rays of marital bliss have finally chanced upon illuminating your countenance?"
Orphan grinned and shut the door carefully after her. "Can't get anything past you," he said, and Isabella Beeton smiled and patted his shoulder.
"I know the look," she said. "Also, Jack did happen to mention something of the sort in this morning's missive. Congratulations." She walked past, her long dress held up demurely lest it come in touch with the dusty floor. "I won't keep you, Orphan. You are no doubt eager to go in pursuit of your newly bound love." She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled at him; her hair was gold, still, though woven with fine white strands that resembled silk. "Our number is complete. Go, seek out Tom, and get that idle fellow to replace you. Your watch is done."
And, so saying, she too disappeared through the small door that led to Jack's basement, and was gone.
Orphan managed to locate Tom Thumb in his quarters near Charing Cross Station, and after rousing the small man from his slumber extracted from him a promise to take his place at the shop for the day.
"Bleedin' poets," Tom Thumb muttered as he exchanged his pyjamas for a crumpled suit. "Always bleating of love and flowers and sheep grazing in fields. The only sheep I like are ones resting on a spit."
"I owe you one," Orphan said, grinning, and Tom shook his head and buttoned his shirt and said, "I've heard that one before, laddie. Just show me the shekels."
"Soon as Jack pays me," Orphan promised, and before Tom could change his mind he was out of the door and walking down the Strand, whistling the latest tune from Gilbert and Sullivan's Ruddigore.
He crossed the river at Westminster, still whistling. Already, on the other side of the river, he could see the whales, and their song rose to meet him, weaving into his whistle like a chorus. He felt light and clear-headed, and he stepped jauntily on, descending the steps towards